“Or, to look at it another way,” continued Helm, untwisting his legs, immediately to re-knot them in an even more intricate tangle, “a State Senator gets six dollars a day while the Legislature’s in session. It meets for sixty days every two years. His term’s four years. So, my money value as the State sees it is one hundred and eighty dollars a year—about fifty cents a day.”
“Well, I hope you’ve shrunk yourself back to normal human size,” said his friend. “I suppose that’s what you’re doing this for.”
“No, Bill. To locate myself. I want to see just where I stand. The slave of a slave of a slave of a slave of a slave of a slave of a slave—I think that’s the right degree—and at fifty cents a day.”
“Branagan gives you some pretty good law cases,” suggested Bill.
Helm eyed him somberly.
“You know you don’t want to be too damn independent, old man,” continued Bill.
“To locate myself,” pursued Helm, as if Bill had not spoken. “I want to see just how far I’ve got to go before——”
He paused here. Said Bill—not altogether in jest, “Before you’re President of the U. S. A.?”
“No,” said George gravely. “Before I’m a man. Before I belong to myself.” He laughed with his peculiar illumination of the whole face apparently from the light of the eyes. “You see, Bill, I’m aiming to go further than most Presidents—especially these latter-day chaps.”
“Further than most plutocrats,” said Desbrough. “As you said, they belong to their boodle bags.... You haven’t broken with Branagan?”